


pride, prejudice, and all that

by doctormissy



Series: all aboard the ineffable plan [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Footnotes, For a bit anyway, Gay Pride, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Holding Hands, Humor, LGBTQ Themes, Minor Violence, New York City, Other, Police Brutality, Queer History, Stonewall Riots, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), all celestial beings are pansexual pass it on, crowley is still a mess bc of the Holy Water Exchange whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: Throughout history, there are many events for which Crowley has taken credit despite not being anywherenearthem. Then there are the Stonewall Riots in 1969.Or, in other words, Crowley is supposed to be there anyway, so why not ask Aziraphale for lunch and fuel a revolution? And fifty years later, they return to celebrate WorldPride.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: all aboard the ineffable plan [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1492577
Comments: 13
Kudos: 160





	pride, prejudice, and all that

**Author's Note:**

> *️⃣ set within "all aboard the ineffable plan" [the first part is a bit I cut from the retrospective chapter 17, and the second takes place right before chapter 19]
> 
> ✅ ABSOLUTELY can be read as stand-alone!
> 
> ✳️ I am neither a historian nor an American, and it's unbetaed, so please forgive me for any mistakes :') enjoy ♡

**NEW YORK, 1969**

Crowley was sitting at a bar, nursing a glass of watered-down cognac and watching Aziraphale awkwardly dance with another man. The angel was completely oblivious to their sorrows and had utterly, absolutely _no_ idea how bloody _devastated_ that one _stupid_ line left them two years ago.

Fuck this whole love business.

Well, no. They’d wait till the end of the world if they had to[1].

Crowley wasn’t one of those demons to speak only false truths and relish in the aftermath. They wouldn’t lie to themself, however pathetic it made them sound. They would, however, sit here and mope around and slowly pour the disgusting drink down their corporation until the edges became a little blurred and some action happened, or something.

Bloody had to fall for an angel.

And no, the irony of the statement didn’t escape them. It’s been quite the while, after all.

How did they get here then, you ask?

Well, it all began in Hell. Stupid Beelzebub.

Or, actually, they’d been in their newly acquired flat, celebrating said acquiring of flat, half a mind to ring Aziraphale and ask him for a spot of lunch and a drink so they wouldn’t be celebrating alone. Well, with two potted plants. They were sure that still counted as alone, though.

It’s been two years since the Holy Water Exchange; surely, that was a long enough time to put a stop to passive-aggressively ignoring one another even by a celestial being’s standards, right?

So, they’d picked up the receiver, actually going through with it. No sense in moping about. At all. The worst thing that could happen was Aziraphale being too busy reading to pick up.

Or so Crowley had thought.

It had turned out that the worst thing that could happen was Ligur being on the other end instead of the angel, telling them they were being summoned before the Lord of Flies in an official capacity, and to hurry the Heaven up.

They’d gritted their teeth and got in the car, hoping it would be a fun assignment at least.

_Then_ they were in Hell.

‘Crowley, you’ll be going to New York this week,’ Beelzebub said, switching focus from Hastur to Crowley. They looked bored, like always. Crowley raised an eyebrow. Didn’t they have another agent for that, overseas? But they, wisely, kept their mouth shut and listened. ‘I know that’s outside your… usual scope of work, but there are humans to tempt, and our agent for America just got discorporated. You said it yourself—we need to branch out.’

Well, this wasn’t exactly what they’d meant. That was more along the lines of modern technology and advancing the ways of temptation beyond the classic one-on-one.

Of course the demons wouldn’t listen to their brilliant ideas.

Beelzebub got up and shuffled off to a nearby desk. They picked up a file and opened it. ‘We have reports of police officers raiding and shutting down bars. Our work, of course, these raids, tempting the _force of law_ to attack and arrest people without any real reason[2].’ They handed the file to Crowley. ‘Finish the job. Tempt them to strike hard this time, particularly this Pine bloke. There’ll be lots of souls in it for us.’

Crowley didn’t have to open the file to know what was going on. Oh, they knew the place. Stonewall Inn. Take a bribe and then strike anyway, unannounced, beat some people up, humiliate them, kill them even, all in the name of the law—that was what they meant, right?

They cracked a crooked smile and said, ‘Pleasure, Lord Beelzebub. Or—y’know what I mean. I’ll get right on it.’ They turned on their heel and gave them a wave with the manila folder before exiting the dark office. ‘Hail Satan and all that.’

They were already cooking up a plan on how to turn this into a win-win that would look good in the paperwork and end up well for the humans.

Beelzebub didn’t know how humanity worked, any of the cogs that made Earth spin. But Crowley knew that another police raid was inevitable, sooner or later. They didn’t need to tempt any officers there. Someone always came up with the nasty things first. The patrons, though? Punching some uniforms and fighting back to put a stop to all that oppression was one way to stir the conflict. It would cause chaos. Lots of outrage. Some violence. Wrath and Pride. All good—bad—whatever—for Hell.

Helping a community to reclaim their rights—as the hopeful result—was just a bonus they’d keep for themself, was all.

They weren’t being _nice_ , mind. They _sympathised_ , was all, being very genderqueer and very queer in general. It came with being a demon, natural to all of them, but after having spent almost 6000 years up there with the humans, they were bound to feel some sort of connection.

_Especially_ since the whole condemnation business mostly came with the Holy-bloody-Bible and humans being all wrong about certain bits[3] of it.

And then there was Aziraphale. He’s been associated with the queer people since, like, forever, and Crowley would be damned again if they let his heart break hearing about all this violence and _oh, this was Crowley’s work!_

They couldn’t stand him hating them.

They got in the car and played some Rolling Stones[4]. And driving back to that new Mayfair flat they were so proud of, and also yet to properly move into, they couldn’t stop thinking about him, and about _this car_ and 1967.

They’d ring him.

And take him to New York to have some good bloody time before everything goes pear-shaped in that bar. Yes. Absolutely. This could be _one day_ , eh, if not exactly a picnic or a dinner at the Ritz?

So, the first thing Crowley did when they reached the desk, the only bit of furniture they owned besides the bed, was finally dial that blasted number on their—black, naturally—telephone and nervously tap their foot on the floor when Aziraphale didn’t pick up.

Then, finally, ‘Crowley?’

‘Yeah, hi, angel. It’s me,’ they said, utterly unhelpfully, and grinned, despite themself. It was that _voice_. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go America and I was wondering if—’

‘I won’t go to America for you, Crowley,’ Aziraphale said firmly. Crowley imagined he was knitting his brows together and searching for answers in the air with those gorgeous blue eyes of his.

‘Not what I wanted to ask,’ they said before Aziraphale managed to get anything else out and embarrass himself.

‘Oh,’ he breathed, relieved.

‘Yeah. What I _wanted_ to ask is if you… perhaps wanted to go with me? Just to—have lunch, a couple drinks.’ They twisted the telephone cable around their finger and sat on the table. ‘C’mon, I bet you’re bored. _I’m_ bored. It’s been a while, eh?’

There was silence on the other end of the line for a while. Crowley ran a hand through their hair. Lots of nervous dithering, they imagined, and could relate. They feared that the air of nonchalance they were trying to give off wasn’t so keen on being given off at all.

‘Crowley, I—’

They sighed. They also ran out of cable to twist. ‘Look, angel. I appreciate what—you know. And I respect what you said. Just. Please?’

They were, also also, trying _really_ bloody hard not to replay That Exchange in their head over and over.

‘Well,’ Aziraphale said. Crowley’s eyebrow went hopefully upwards. ‘The last time I’ve visited America must have been, oh, more than a century ago. Edgar Allen Poe was still alive. We met. Very—’ Aziraphale took a deep breath. ‘Very well, then. But I am _not_ getting on an _aeroplane_.’

‘Nah, I’ve got that covered. I’m—’ They scratched the back of their neck. ‘I’m going on official business, can get away with a teleportation miracle. Heaven can’t object if you use one to chase and thwart me, eh? Anyway. Meet you at the bookshop in an hour?’

‘Today?’ Aziraphale asked incredulously.

‘No, next week,’ Crowley deadpanned.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Yes, Aziraphale, _today_. Honestly.’ They rolled their eyes. Sarcasm has been on this planet long enough, seriously. The angel was _incorrigible._ ‘Is that a yes then?’

‘Give me two hours, alright, dear boy? I’m not as—not as _fast_ as you.’

_Fuck_.

‘Aight. Sure. See ya.’

They rang off and slumped their shoulders. The not-replaying thing was going very poorly, as of now. They’d run their hand across their face, too, but that would ruin the make-up, and Crowley absolutely couldn’t have that.

In fact, they had to get ready too, because despite what Aziraphale might _think_ , choosing the right outfit wasn’t an easy job. Especially when they’ve recently updated their wardrobe[5] and had _so_ many combinations to try on.

Two hours and six minutes[6] later, they finally met the angel at the designated meeting point, wearing black bell-bottoms and a black jean jacket with a decidedly women’s flower-print shirt underneath, and having their hair properly backcombed and lips painted dark. Aziraphale gave them a Look. A slightly judgmental one, as if Crowley was the one with the atrocious, outdated fashion style here.

So, Crowley rolled their eyes in return and gave him a properly demonic grin. They closed the bookshop door, and after a minute or ten of mildly strained and uncomfortable small talk, Crowley announced that they were teleporting to New York now and the angel should follow them.

So, here they were.

They’ve been in the city for two days now. Broadly, the state of being here wasn’t all that different from being in London, really. They had lunch in whichever niche restaurants Aziraphale found, took a walk in Central Park, went to the opera even. _La Traviata_. Very good performance, Crowley had to admit. Worth leaving the hair product and lipstick in the hotel room[7].

If anyone claimed that they couldn’t know whether it was good or not because they spent the majority of the time glancing at Aziraphale and his expressions, ranging from deeply touched to all frowny and upset to deeply touched _again_ , they were a bloody _liar_.

It was just that when evening turned to night, they relocated to the Stonewall Inn and observed.

Well, drank, spread whispers, and observed.

A job was a job, and Crowley was eager to seize the opportunity to do something about it, between being complimented on their looks, bought that drink, and asked to dance by a flattering number of people. They usually declined, not being all that good at dancing[8]. But when someone sat next to them, they did what they most excelled at: _temptation_.

_Fight back. Stop this. C’mon, you can do better, don’t let them treat you worse than animals!_

And—they were starting to feel _accepted_ here, among all the drag queens and lesbians and gay men and mafia owners and homeless youth. The bar was a place for outcasts like them. Of course, there were gay bars in London—in Soho, even—and they found themself frequenting the places, but there was just _something_ about this one. This strange sort of energy.

Sinful, but also—Aziraphale mentioned it, too— _loved_.

They took a sip of their cognac, gazed wistfully at the angel, scorned themself for doing it so very obviously, and _waited_.

They didn’t have to wait long. The policemen stormed in, oh, two hours later, right on the second night. There have been undercover cops inside the whole time. Of _course_ there were. They were a demon, should’ve known.

Crowley would be proud for predicting the humans’ behaviour quite so accurately once again if they currently weren’t being shoved to the bathroom so an officer could check what was in their trousers. Honestly, that was _fucked up_ , never happened in ancient Greece.

They had the privilege of choosing that bit of anatomy consciously, but the others? Not so much[9].

‘We won’t go with you,’ they stated, with the weight of reality-bending conviction, gesturing at the queens and the women. That seemed to shake the policemen enough for them to stop for a second.

Aziraphale and the other male-shaped beings were to stand in a line and procure identification, which Aziraphale, naturally, didn’t have, being an angel. Well, he did, in his desk at the bookshop, which didn’t help here. So he did the only thing he _could_ do: refused to show it. The other men followed suit.

It was a cascade of events after that. The policemen began to drag Crowley and the other female-presenting people to a room at the back of the bar. Wasn’t looking all that well. But Crowley found Aziraphale and locked eyes with him, as much as that was possible with the sunglasses, and gave him a lopsided grin.

They’d wink, too, but he wouldn’t see it, so it would be a useless action. They didn’t bother. That got the point across. _We’ve already started a revolution, baby_.

Crowley successfully passed as a woman—with some mild shapeshifting around the chest area—and got out of the bar, some ten uncomfortable minutes later. They wanted to _kick_ them all to Hell _personally_ for bloody touching the lesbians the disgusting way they _did_. Not even demons could come up with—this. Beelzebub’s jaw would drop if they saw just _how much_ these humans didn’t need their help.

But getting out was the important bit. Every single person who got out was another one to join the crowd that was forming in Christopher Street, and if there was a big enough crowd, they’d have _power_.

It was Rule Number Four of living in Hell.

The whispers served their purpose. The humans were getting excited and ready for action. They wouldn’t run away and hide _today_. Someone started to sing, and someone else started to throw things at a police wagon. Then a cop led a woman in cuffs out of the bar. She was one of those Crowley had talked to, a real fighter.

‘Why don’t you guys do something?’ she shouted. There was, what, 600 people now?

Violence broke out.

Crowley ticked it off as a successful mission to report back to head office—the so-called protectors of the law did lots of things that were wrong, it wasn’t their fault the people didn’t idly stand by and let it happen, or something like that—and went to find some beer bottles.

They didn’t have to go far. Aziraphale handed them a pair. ‘Upstairs can’t actually protest if I’m protecting the wellbeing and rights of the oppressed, especially when it’s allegedly _your_ demonic work,’ he said with the air of someone who knew blessed well how to twist words to serve them.

‘Especially when they’re kind of, y’know. Our people.’

‘Indeed, my dear. This one’s for Oscar, Alan, and all my old friends.’

He threw a bottle at a police wagon. Crowley was very fucking _impressed_ and didn’t hesitate to do the same.

•

**NEW YORK, 2019**

It’s been precisely fifty years since they last ventured to New York.

Much hasn’t changed. There were more people, more cars, more shining LED adverts, more pollution—but other than that, it was the same old Big Apple[10], Crowley observed. A little too big and a little too overestimated.

But, just now, it was also significantly _gayer_.

And he had to give the city that. It _had_ been the cradle of the gay movement all over the globe, those fifty years ago, and did something amazing. He’d _known_ his subtle temptations whispered over drinks would lead to something great, but he’d only _hoped_ it would be this large-scale.

Ripple effect. The demons still believed in that as much as certain humans believed in global warming, but if they were here right now, he’d laugh right in their face and tell them, _See? This is something we can do with just our words and a bit of time_.

The offices, of course, were none the wiser and still thought Crowley and Aziraphale had nothing whatsoever to do with the revolution, only the souls delivered to Hell upon death. And there were _many_. He’d got a commendation.

He’d also dug out the old jean jacket, tied it around his waist, and pinned the pansexual, demisexual, and genderfluid flag pins to his snake print crop top[11]. Aziraphale had the pansexual one too, and an agender one to add to it. _And_ he wasn’t wearing his stupid Victorian coat, because the weather was literally too hot even for him, which was a very good situation for Crowley, who liked warmth and seeing Aziraphale in fewer layers.

Those being a _short-sleeved_ shirt and a pink bow tie. _Nothing_ more. It was as if Christmas has come early—if Crowley celebrated Christmas in any major sort of way. The old trousers stayed, but—it was a victory anyway.

Crowley held his hand. They were watching the parade walk by, standing among _millions_ of humans adorned with all sorts of flags and banners, and Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand. That was a second victory.

The third was all the selfies people wanted to take with them. His own invention was _thriving_. And not just that. People were noticing them, and they let them notice, because Heaven and Hell could shove it. They were free now. Could be seen on two hundred Instagram posts, and the offices could do precisely zilch about it.

Crowley, in turn, was taking photos of the marchers. There were people wearing rainbow _wings_. What a spectacle! He didn’t know whether the bosses would be flattered or outraged, and frankly couldn’t tell which was better.

‘Do you…’ he cleared his throat. The street was packed, the people were loud. As they blessed well should be. ‘Do you understand what went down, in ‘69?’

‘What do you mean? You tempted the patrons of the inn to rebel against police violence. They inspired a wave of protests everywhere, and finally, the community—they weren’t _choked_ by absurd laws enacted by mindless simpletons who thought anything that was slightly unconventional was _wrong_. They should have studied history a little more closely.’

Aziraphale was the expert here, wasn’t he? Should teach at university[12] or something.

Crowley glanced at the Stonewall Inn on the other side of the road. The rows of rainbow flags flapping under the windows. A memory of a week of rioting that, unlike all the riots in Hell, had fired up real change, and not in the nasty, paperwork-inducing way.

‘Yeah, but that’s the thing about humans. They don’t need us. Everything I’d written I’d done, I’d really done maybe a third of it, you know how it goes,’ he said. ‘I think it would’ve happened anyway. I told myself it was my work—and yours, good job throwing beer cans and blessings around—but this had been a long time coming. If I’d been in Jersey for all I care, it still would’ve happened.’

He’s been giving it a lot of thought. It was Pride Month this month, so it was a natural progression of events, that. And wearing make-up again. But—the outcasts always rose up. He’d know.

‘All the significant events in history happened without us,’ Aziraphale said, in a reminiscent sort of voice.

Crowley nodded musingly. ‘Or despite us.’

‘Do you know what’s the one substantial detail that marks this event, though, my dear?’ Aziraphale looked at him. There was an excited spark in those blue eyes and in the wrinkles around them. Crowley raised his eyebrow theatrically high. ‘You didn’t just do the right thing; you _came there_ with the intention of doing it. It was really quite heroic of you.’

‘Shut up,’ he groaned. The way the corners of his mouth lifted a bit upwards gave him away though. ‘I acted out of self-interest, obviously. Supporting illegal businesses. Chaos and all that. Making Pride a whole big thing. Look, ‘s got the sin right in the name.’

Crowley knew this had nothing whatsoever in common with one of the Deadly Sins. It was the exact _opposite_. But, you know, for the sake of the argument…

‘Of course, you wily serpent,’ Aziraphale said, absolutely unconvinced, and brought Crowley’s hand, the one he was holding, up to his mouth. He pressed a soft kiss against the back. Crowley felt it deep underneath his skin, the holy energy, and if he wasn’t a self-respecting demon, he’d swoon.

But he didn’t, thank you very much.

He was, slowly, getting used to this sort of thing being on the menu every day now. They saved the world (August). Moved to a cottage in the village of Climping, down south (January). Adopted[13] a stray black cat (March). Kissed (April). Made love (May). Went back here (now).

He wasn’t going too fast anymore.

Aziraphale closed his other hand around it and let it drop to the very narrow gap between them. The parade kept on moving past the recently enacted Stonewall National Monument.

‘Happy Pride, Crowley,’ Aziraphale said.

‘Sure, angel. Happy Pride.’

* * *

1 Back then, Crowley hadn’t realised how _true_ that statement would become. Looking back, he snorted and raised one to his past self’s almost Nutterian little predictions that he’d have rather not seen happen, but here they were.[✿]

2 Demons—or angels, for that matter—didn’t believe in homophobia or any such nonsense, and frankly were stunned at humans’ approach towards everyone who was “different”. Why the _fuck_ couldn’t masculine people dress like women and vice versa? Sleep with people of the same gender? Honestly. Weird humans. They didn’t _start_ any of it.

They did, however, notice and began to encourage the bribery, hiding in mafia bars and speakeasies, the occasional raid. Within a decade or two, they shall have _many_ souls. Mostly the mafia and the policemen. It had nothing to do with homosexuality; demons merely saw an opportunity and took it.[✿]

3 To be completely honest, Crowley was mostly mad that all the credit for the Original Sin went to Lucifer, when he did precisely _shit_ and Crowley had to do all the dirty work. Literally. Crawling through the earth. Then the boss came waltzing in and stole his thunder, and nowadays people thought that Lucifer and the Serpent had been one person. Eugh, no.[✿]

4 This was before Queen became popular, Crowley started listening to their music, and Dagon put a curse on his car as a prank, of course. Crowley was all about The Rolling Stones, The Doors, The Beatles, and Elvis these days.[✿]

5 And not _just_ wardrobe. Pronouns. Hair. Style. Everything. They reinvented themself, in the way of heartbroken girls getting haircuts and buying four pairs of trousers to do _something_ to shake off the past and feel in control of their lives. And, maybe just a little bit, to spite their exes—or, in this case, one fretful angel.[✿]

6 Demons invented being fashionably late.[✿]

7 Crowley miracled the clerk at the reception not to ask any questions or notice anything odd about them, and to give them each a room for as long as necessary. Thankfully, they had a few single rooms available; sharing, that would just be asking for trouble. Various kinds.[✿]

8 The less-known reason was that the only being they wanted to dance with was Aziraphale, and he didn’t ask. Of course he didn’t; not even in an illegal gay bar 3500 miles away from home.[✿]

9 A major fault on the Almighty’s part if you asked them.[✿]

10 As self-evident as it might seem, Crowley had nothing whatsoever to do with the nickname.[✿]

11 Hot weather. Don’t judge. He looked fabulous.[✿]

12 The future would see Crowley being the one teaching at a university, some seven years later. As it turned out, Aziraphale was quite comfortable doing absolutely nothing for days on end and never got bored, and didn’t want to have to ride a car with Crowley every day, while Crowley grew more restless with every year, and soon, not even gardening and being a local nuisance could cut it. So the demon decided to return to the old ways of teaching humans sciences to spite Heaven, and was doing quite well at King’s College.[✿]

13 Crowley did, in any case. Aziraphale merely didn’t argue with him.[✿]

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos sustain me ♡


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